


Reality Check

by mezzo_cammin



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mezzo_cammin/pseuds/mezzo_cammin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up from a coma after Search and Rescue to find things are not quite what he was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reality Check

Reality Check

Cognitive dissonance. That's what the new shrink had labeled it, this anxious feeling that shadowed John's every waking thought, haunted his restless dreams. He was living with two different realities in his psyche: the one he'd imagined in coma-induced Technicolor detail so complete it felt more like a memory than a dream, and this reality, the actual one, where he had the approximate strength of a toddler and a voice still hoarse from being intubated, kept alive by the respirator. Dr. Hayek had urged him to give it time and advised a short course of anti-depressant therapy, which John had politely, firmly, declined. He wasn't depressed. He was…uneasy.

Dr. Keller had just released him from the infirmary, two weeks after he'd regained consciousness, one week after he'd been able to hold down solid food, five days after he'd shuffled the length of the infirmary and back, three days after the physical therapist had cleared him, twelve hours after he'd threatened to leave with or without Keller’s permission, and less than ten minutes after Rodney had had 'a word' with her in her office. He'd been given three pages of detailed instructions on what he could eat, how much weight he could lift, how much sleep he should get, when to shower, when to shit, what to do if he couldn't piss, and five appointments, circled in red on a miniature calendar, for PT, OT, psych, followup scans, and debriefings with Colonel Carter.

He was winded when he reached his quarters, glad Rodney hadn't come with him, disappointed that Rodney had taken no for an answer without putting up much of an argument. Cognitive dissonance.

Then again, he thought as he watched Ronon unlean himself from the doorway and quirk a hairy eyebrow at him, maybe he was just…nuts.

"Sheppard."

"Ronon." John waved his hand over the entrance and frowned when nothing happened. Waved his hand again, sharply. He shot a glance at Ronon, whose shoulders were shaking with suppressed mirth.

"Damn," Ronon said. "I owe McKay ten bucks. He said you'd try to come to this room."

"It's my room." John clenched his hands into fists. He wasn't sure where the anger was coming from, or what to do with it, but it was there, in his fists. Waiting.

"Not yet, it's not," Ronon said, and jerked his head down the hall, toward a transporter. "The team just requisitioned larger quarters in this area a few months ago. Then you disappeared for almost two weeks. Then you were in a coma. So -- no one's moved. Yet."

Okay, yeah, John had _known that_. He just hadn't -- he had -- all of a sudden his head was throbbing again, wave after wave of blinding pain, and all he wanted to do was slink back into the infirmary, find his safe, quiet hospital bed, and not move until tomorrow. He blinked, and Ronon was holding out a water bottle in one hand and a couple of pain pills in the other. He wasn't smiling.

"McKay said you'd probably need these, too."

"Oh, he did, did he?" John swallowed the pills and chased them with half of the water. "What _else_ did McKay say?" He asked, as they trudged back down the hall to the transporter.

"Lots of things." Ronon said. He matched his steps to John's. "Had a lot of time to talk while we were waiting for you to get up."

"Yeah? Sorry about that."

He leaned against the inside of the transporter, watching through drooping lids as Ronon touched the area of the city where his quarters actually were, and wishing it took longer than three seconds for the doors to open again.

"Don't be. McKay's all right. Besides, somebody had to keep him - hey, here we are. Just a little bit more."

"Keep him what? Company? Awake? Sane?" John's thoughts chased themselves in circles. He swayed unsteadily on his feet, glad, suddenly, fiercely, for Ronon's solid strength beside him. This door opened easily to his haphazard hand swipe, and there was his bed, just a few blessedly short feet away.

He was out by the time his ass hit the mattress, so he never felt Ronon take off his boots, settle him into the center of the bed, and cover him with a blanket. Never heard him say, "Away. Somebody had to keep him away, John."

*****

Evidently, John was going to suffer occasional migraines now. He would have to get used to them, at least for a few months. Keller said this with real regret, frowning at his scans. John nodded. He did that a lot, lately, the nodding. Opening his mouth to ask something, then thinking better of it. He was waiting. He just wasn't sure what he was waiting for.

*****

"Hold on." John placed one hand under the baby's rump and one behind his head, cradling him in his arms. "Torren _John_? You really named him after me?"

Teyla smiled, serene, as she poured their tea. "Yes. Does that surprise you?"

"No, it's just -- I dreamed that. You know, that you named him after me." John felt the tips of his ears burning. He hesitated, now, to talk about what he'd dreamed when he was in the coma. With the passage of time, the dreams seemed more and more far-fetched -- ridiculous, even. But this. This had come true. That sense of unease was niggling at him again. His temples were starting to ache. What if…what if the other things he'd dreamed started to happen? What if they weren't dreams at all, but -- precognition? A chill swept up John's spine and Torren stirred in his arms, one tiny fist batting the air.

"We thought you were dying." Teyla placed a hand on John's shoulder, and the warmth of her touch grounded him, eased the panic he'd felt rising.

"We -- I wanted to keep a part of you alive. For -- for all of us." Teyla said, and there it was again. People started to say things, and then they stopped. Chose different words. Went on, as if John wasn't supposed to notice. He glanced around Teyla's apartment, so warm and inviting, smelling of exotic herbs and baby, of the ocean, and searched for the words he needed to say.

"Teyla."

"Yes, John?"

"I should have been there for you. _I_ should have been the one to stop Michael."

"No. No, you're wrong," Teyla said. "Think about it, John. Had you been there, Michael might have panicked and fled. As it was, he grew complacent. He thought he had nothing to fear from a helpless female such as myself. I -- understand that you speak from your heart, from a warrior's need to protect his family. But -- what happened was -- best for all of us. In the end, we have all won. You are alive, Torren John is safe, and I have quite a story to tell my son when he grows to be a man."

John smiled and buried his nose in the petal-soft skin behind Torren's ear. His heart felt lighter than it had in a very long time.

 

*****

His briefings with Colonel Carter were going well. Not a lot had happened while he was out of the picture, but she briefed him, nonetheless. Now that Michael had been eliminated as a threat, Carter felt it was important to rebuild trust among the Pegasus natives, and not only to rebuild trust, but to place themselves into partnerships with other societies. They talked strategies and failsafes and mapped out contingency plans, and his respect for her grew with every meeting they had. She challenged him to think outside the box, and since that was his comfort zone, they worked well together. Best of all, she never seemed to cut herself off mid-sentence and then rephrase her words, like the others.

They would occasionally bring Rodney in to brainstorm with them, and Ronon and Teyla soon became essential for many of their planning sessions. John would sit back and look at _his_ team, and _his_ commander, and feel a swell of pride rise so high he would have to clear his throat to hold back the words. They'd look at him, and he'd shrug, sheepish, and point something out on the map or the whiteboard, missing their half-smiles and knowing glances.

 

*****

The hardest thing for him to wrap his mind around, it turned out, was the absence of Rodney and Jennifer's romantic relationship. He and Ronon had started into the cafeteria one day, just shooting the shit and loading their trays, when he saw them sitting at a table, laughing together. Rodney was animated, spinning a yarn, and Jennifer was obviously teasing him. They looked -- happy, together.

John stopped in his tracks, dizzied by a terrible sense of déjà vu, his stomach muscles clenching tightly. He nodded towards them, said, "Hey, check them out. You think he's ever going to make a move…?"

Ronon followed his gaze, then snorted and smacked John on the back of his head. Hard.

"On _her_? Not if he knows what's good for him. McKay's right. You _are_ blind!" And with that, Ronon strode over to their table, bent down and laid a passionate kiss on Jennifer that had half the people in the cafeteria giving catcalls and wolf whistles. John felt the back of his head to see if a lump had actually started to form there, then shrugged and ambled over to join them. Rodney grinned at him, slid his chair over to make room, then picked up his story in midstream, eyes twinkling, hands waving.

It wasn't until he was dropping off to sleep that night that John remembered what Ronon had said about him being blind. His eyes snapped open, and it was nearing daylight before he finally fell asleep.

 

******

A couple of nights later, John grabbed a six-pack of beer, his red flannel shirt, and his nerve, and went to McKay's quarters.

Rodney came to the door, barefoot, wearing faded Levis he'd obviously just pulled on, and a frown. His eyes zeroed in on the six-pack and he looked questioningly up at John.

"Tell me I didn't dream us drinking beer out on the pier," John said. He very carefully kept his eyes on Rodney's face and away from his bare chest and unbuttoned jeans.

Rodney shook his head, his eyes going soft at the corners. "No. No, we actually do that. A lot. Or we used to."

John raised an eyebrow and hefted the six-pack. "Wanna?"

Rodney grinned. "Let me just go throw on a shirt and some shoes," he said, and ducked back into his room. John very carefully did not say, "Don't get dressed on my account, McKay." But it took a lot of determination.

His stupid heart was jumping around in his chest while he waited, and John took some deep, cleansing breaths, just as Teyla had taught him. For all the good it did.

"You sure you feel up to a walk tonight?" Rodney asked. "You sound a little winded already."

"Oh, ha, ha," John said, and thrust the beer into Rodney's midsection. He caught it with a woof of air and a token protest, and then they were headed out. To the pier. To drink beer. And all the while they walked, and trash talked, and goaded each other, shoulders bumping together companionably, John felt things starting to click into place, like puzzle pieces that had finally interlocked. This. This was the reality. The real one.

When he'd woken from the coma, all the images of his dreams, vivid and detailed but not real, had been clouding his mind. All the things he thought had happened, could have happened, should have happened -- simply hadn't. There'd been no tentacled aliens. No parasite in Rodney's brain. No rogue Asgard. No Mr. Woolsey in charge of Atlantis. No Michael come back to kidnap Torren John. No Wraith on their way to earth. No Atlantis in San Francisco Bay.

No Rodney and Jennifer, arms around each other, as John stood off to the side, alone. Yearning.

They reached the edge of the pier and sat side by side, legs dangling over the edge. Rodney pulled the first beer out of the pack, popped the top, and turned to hand it to John. John put his hand over Rodney's, and Rodney must have felt something in his touch, seen something in John's face, because he closed his eyes and breathed, "Oh, God, _finally_ ," right before he leaned over and kissed him. John kissed him back, eagerly, eyes closing, heart pounding with excitement and hope.

This. _This_ was reality. Rodney's hoarse, whispered oaths pressed against John's jaw, into his ear. "God, I've missed you. So much, John. So. It's been so hard, not - but Dr. Hayek said no pressure, or you'd break. God, come here, come _here_ …" and then Rodney just hauled him up against him, rocking him, his face tucked against John's neck, and John could feel the shudders going through Rodney's body, feel the wetness on his neck, and he thought, what if I hadn't? What if I'd _never_?

He held onto Rodney then with all the strength he had in him, until the shaking slowed and gradually stilled, until they were wrapped in each others’ arms, exchanging slow, languid kisses between murmured promises. John was hard, so hard he ached with it, ached for Rodney’s hand on him, or God, Rodney’s _mouth_. He wasn’t ready to give this up quite yet, though, this embrace. It was so good, so _real_ , until finally, finally, all they were left with, the two of them, were hands clasped together on John’s thigh, Rodney’s head resting on John’s shoulder, the New Lantean moons guarding the sky above them, and Atlantis at their backs.


End file.
